


Strength

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger Management, Ch2 aint great, F/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, So there you go, Spanking, Sparring, but it aint getting any better either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: You tend to arc up when the villains get their hands on your ass.  Dean thinks a bit of training might help you manage the fury about that.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hhh- _AH!_ What the fuck was that?!”

Dean leans up a bit and smiles at you, languid, heavy and knowing.

“What the fuck?” you glare.

“What? Did that hurt?”

“Yes!” _Duh!_ Totally ruined some of his sweet nuzzling too.

_Smack!_ He did it again, right where your ass meets your thigh. You gasped again, high and shocked. 

He’s looking at you with that cock-sure, half-lidded gaze that either excites you or ignites you. Instantly you want to hit him, thump him wherever your hand is right now and about twice as hard as he hit you, just for his fucking nerve.

He has his elbow tucked into the crook of your knee, pressing your leg to his waist and he’s sprawled over you on the couch, rubbing over the patch he just hit. You’re bent, awkward and achy from movie-watching with his ribs lying over your groin, and although stroking his hair and back under his warm weight was a lovely way to spend 97 minutes, the true ache is from 97 minutes of teasing yourself with thoughts of porn. Not this goddamn kind of porn though.

“Why are you hitting me?”

“I’m not _hitting_ you, I’m spanking you,” he says, nonchalant and squeezing the words as he adjusts himself. He goes back to kissing around your neck, tongue lapping where his teeth can’t reach.

“ _Oh. **O**_ -Kay. Why are you spanking me?” You ask, no less irate.

“Coz I think you might need it.”

“What?!! Are you telling me you have a thing for punishment?” Fuck the double chins, you want to see his damn face.

“No, just…” Dean sighs in preparation, gets his elbow under his shoulder so he can prop himself up to talk to you. He watches his fingers play with your sleeve cuff.   “Last weekend, when that vamp had you pinned on your stomach and was smacking you around, I thought you were going to flip out.” He looks up at you, steady and kind. “Like have a full panic attack or something. You were furious. Way too angry, for that.”

You feel shame for not being able to control  your emotions while a stupid monster pressed your buttons. He was right. You’d been got.

He goes on gently.  “You know, you fight so well, you take a punch and get back up every time but when you’re stuck… I dunno. I just thought it might help.” His calloused fingers are starting to rub your skin sore where he’s stroking your arm. “It’s like they’ve threatened your very soul, or something.”

“My dignity.” You know what he’s talking about. “Dignity is probably a better word for it.”  You don’t sound proud, or defiant.

“You need to be stronger than that Y/N. It’s got to be harder to upset you, especially like that.”

He’s actually talking about one of your greatest weaknesses, but this feels muddy, and you’re not sure. “You’re my boyfriend, Dean. This would not be like that.”

“I know, and you’re right, but did you see your reaction just then? You were ready to go at me till the bell.”

“I know. I hate it.”  You don’t know why you can’t take it like you do during a fight. It’s a different headspace. You so resent the fact that you’re _supposed_ to take it, too, in a way Dean and Sam rarely will.

“You can get hurt like that, and you will be okay.” He looks at you, neck long, t-shirt warmth and stubble-soft, letting you get alongside him for this.

He rubs along your ass again, low and pressing, watching you unconsciously tense for it without realising.

“Smacking your ass doesn’t make you mine.”

_Smack!_ You jump, but manage your reaction back to a swallowed groan and a bitten lip. He smacks the skin so specifically, your yoga pants giving only a mild barrier.  You try to seem unaffected.

Dean watches you, captivated. All of you is rigid still but your mouth, and you’re pushing through the instinct to flare up, so much focus spent on falling back.

“Your ass is only mine if you give it to me.”  He stares at your lips, eyes on the prize, and somehow reaches you, easily long, to kiss and lick you open.

_Smack!_

You jump again and yelping into his mouth, and humming into the pain that lasts a little longer now after these few strikes.

He kisses down your cheek and under your jaw, murmuring “You can tell me to stop, whenever you want, but I want you to consider letting me do this to you so you can get used to it,” - nudge, kiss - “deal a little better,” - kiss, nibble - “get some thicker skin-”

“Get turned on by villains.” You’re half serious but Dean huffs it away without a worry.  He shifts himself to lay over you more, pushes his arm under your body to centre you under him on the couch, then drags his hand down and scoops your hips up, pinning your knee to his waist again, making your ass easy. 

You’ve always loved the way he moves you, adoring and firm, but it’s riveting this time, every choice heavy with purpose.  Your brain skitters though the suggestiveness to what he might do next, where else he might strike, and you buzz in those live-wire places.

“You do make some goddam sexy noises when I do this,” he says, sliding his palm up and down your thigh, “and I cannot tell you how hot it is, the way your body reacts, but you can manage that better than your anger. We can use that.”

“You going to let me spank you too?”

He doesn’t think retribution is a good idea, but setting an example is more important. “If you want.”

“No,” you say softly, “if _you_ want.  How you want.”

And that there is why he can’t get enough of you.  An image of himself on all fours, with your hand on his belly and your lips on his ear, saying exactly what he needs to hear before your hand comes down on the palest of his skin, maybe even the softest.  He wants your trust like you’ve got his, wants to show you.

Dean’s gaze pins you well enough that you don’t notice his arm move again, but it’s not enough to keep you from gasping, shutting your eyes and throwing your chin up at the sharp _Smack!_ He’s shifted sideways, aimed it, narrowed it too, to just inside your sitting bone and it’s made the softness around your pussy quake.

While your head’s tilted high and you’re biting your lip again, brow furrowed as you hum each breath, Dean groans and dives back into your neck, pushing your head aside with his forehead so he can devour your racing pulse and flashing tendons. 

“ _Please_ baby,” he groans, “let me show you how strong you are.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean closes the door behind himself, watching you turn around and flop your arms on your thighs as you look around your room.  

You’ve come here for… what you guess is a lesson.  And you know you need some help about this but it seems so goddamn, so very _fucking_ stupid and indulgent and honestly there’s got to be a better-

“Okay, so you mentioned dignity.”  Dean walks towards you, stopping before he’s in your personal space.

“Yeah, well, it’s all wrapped up with, I dunno… being patronised… infantilised… dominated, I guess.”  You can’t look at him properly, can’t shake the darkness from your face.  

“So what would be the most humiliating position for you then?”

“Oh could you not fucking _smile?!”_

“I’m not smiling!” But he is, talking about positions.

“You are!” You’re loud and pissed, and Dean’s infuriatingly not upset.

“Hey, you’re at 11 again, just,” he holds his hands up, “calm down… We’ll go slow.”

Your glaring brow is so strong your eyes can’t even roll.  “I swear to God, Dean, I swear to every _fucking_ God I’ve heard of, if you’re doing this just for kicks-”

“So what if I was?”  He’s so frikken calm.  Asshole.  “Kick my ass later.  But right now, Y/N, you’re off the handle.  It’s exactly this.  You have to figure this out.”

Hands on hips, teeth almost ground to cracking, you turn away and pretend to calm down.  Pretend to yourself and him that you can stretch it all out.  “Over your knee.”  Oh man, you can’t even get the words out without bristling.  With a shake of the head and licked lips, you begin to agree with him again and turn back to look him in the eye.  “Like a fucking child.”

“All right.”  His hands are still up.  “If you want me to stop, just say so.”

With his eyes on you, he sits on the side of your bed, and waits for you to join in.

“If you dare crack a boner,” you point at him, “I will fucking snap it off.”

He only smiles half way, so sensible is Dean.  “I will definitely crack a boner, and so would they. Are you going to care about my boner?”

Deep breath…

“Would you care about theirs?”

Yes.  “No.”

“Alright then.”

You kneel beside his leg, warily leaning over and arranging yourself on his thighs.  You don’t know where to put your hands - on the carpet, around his ankle - but he shifts his legs wide so they’re under your hips and ribs, and you find it doesn’t matter much.

“Up here.”  He pats low on your back.  “Not like you’d end up here with your arms free anyway.”

You cross your wrists over your back, letting Dean get a good hold with one hand, pressing them down.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

_*crack!*_

“Fuck! _Dean?!_ Why so fuckin’ hard?!”  You have to flick your hair to see him properly; all he does is raise his eyebrows.  “Oh you’re so fucking clever.”

_*smack!*_

“Ow!” you wheeze, trying to be quiet now, and turn away at the sting.  “Fuck that hurts!”

_*smack!*_

“ _Mm_ -hm!” Each strike makes your back straighten, makes you puff too.  

Dean starts to rub over the soreness, warmth on heat, light and kind.  

You’re about to say _They wouldn’t do that_ , but yeah, they would.  They’ve give you nice things between the pain.

_*crack!*_

“Ah! Shit!” that one was lower, almost at your thigh, and it rings around your seat in exactly the way you wish it wouldn’t.

“Doin’ okay?”

“Mm,” you puff, “fine.”  You stare at the carpet with poorly contained loathing. “It’s funny.  I love your hands on me.  It’s one of my favourite things, but right now,” you bite your lip and lift your head to look at the wall, trying not to chew the words out.  “Right now you can fuck _right_ off.”

“Really?” He damn well sounds like he’s still smiling.

“Yep.  Feel like scratching your face off.”

Okay that felt a bit personal and the way he goes cold behind his ears makes him stop short.

He wraps a hand around your upper arm, helping you upright and leading you to straddle his lap.  “We’re doing this wrong,” he says, shaking his head as he rubs up and down your shoulders.

He isn’t hugging you, there’s no gushing affection about this; he’s still thinking about what will work better, so you sit and petulantly wait without doing much more than that.

“Hop up,” he says, patting your hip.  “I got an idea.”

You patiently bite your tongue about the success of those so far, and get off, waiting for him to lead the way.

But before that, he’s got his hands in your hair, pulling you close so he can kiss you, deeply and earnestly.  He drags his hold down your neck and pulls on your waist, letting the kiss find a rhythm of it’s own, giving it time to finish too.  “You’re it for me, you know?”

“Sorry, what?  What it?”

“You’re it.” He says it calmly, with a little wonder.

_Oh…_ “I- yeah- I figured,” you cover, because that’s as close to _I love you_ as he’s ever gotten.

And with a quick smile he’s taken your hand and led you out of the room before you can even think.

So you walk like things are normal.  Your ass and heart are both ringing, but you can walk as though everything feels just fine.  You’re not sure how you feel about him dropping a bomb-adjacent thing like that right then, but okay.  He doesn’t seem to be nervous.  “The gym?”  You’re here already, and Dean’s taking off his plaid so it’s just henley and track pants.  “You want to spar?!”

“Okay, so that was the wrong way to go about this.”  He walks into the centre of the mat, then backwards, taking his side, and talks while he tugs up his sleeves.  “That, all that, I don’t wanna, like _break_ you.”

You step to the edge of the fight space, crossing your arms as you listen.

“And honestly, in the bedroom? With me?- It was just, all flavours of wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong-”

“Okay, I appreciated you finally admitting you made a mistake,” you say.  “Could you-”

“Wait, one thing first,” he stops you.  “All that stuff back on the couch?  The trust that I want with you?  That’s connected to that kinda stuff, but it’s not connected to this.  I’m sorry I mixed them up.  I do wanna do that stuff with you and we’ll talk about it later-” You’ve started to get reluctant again, tilting like you’ll leave.  “Way later- just.  Please, let me try this.”

The seconds roll by while you think of a reason not to trust him.  “I’ve let you hit me a lot already.  You better sell it.”

Dean huffs out one last breath, and makes his pitch.  “I don’t think you should learn to be indifferent about this, certainly not submissive.  Your fight, you know I think it tempts them.  I think it makes them want to try and tease you, make you crack, but when I think back… every time.  Every single time that’s happened you’ve come out just… swingin’ and it’s absolutely glorious.  A little _unfocused_ ,” he adds, “but glorious.”

Okay, you can take criticism. In theory.  So you’re still listening.

“I don’t think we need to get you giving into kinky things that you can’t control. I think we need to get your ass out of the anger and into the fight.  Literally.”

You think hard for a bit… “You mean, treat my ass like I treat my elbow.”

“Exactly,” he points at you.

“And how will we do that?”

“We’re going to fight, and you win by smacking my ass.”

_Oh really?_

“And I win by smacking yours.”

With a thoughtful pout you start to pace the edge of the mat.  It certainly does rile you when someone helps themselves to your butt in a fight, but the types you encounter certainly have no scruples about any area being out of bounds.  You need to get less upset when it happens… “I dunno if my ass can take much more of your massive hand across it,” you sigh, but you know if you were out, you’d be out of the room already.

“Then you’ll have to get good real quick huh?”

Dean won’t go easy.  You hate it when he does.  So as soon as you step onto the plastic, you’re watching his frame and judging, all reluctance left behind.

“You’re probably pretty pissed at me already,” he says, crouching in readiness.

“Well, you made a mistake,” you correct him.  “That’s okay.  But I’m fairly shitty about how hard you hit me.”

“Still hurts?”

Yes, it fucking still hurts.  “Nope. I just thought it was rude.”

It’s like chess with Dean.  There are a thousand ways to start the game, all of them cursory yet decisive, and every time you’re quick with the familiarity there’s a risk you’ll get too deep too soon.  Usually the first few tackles are like shorthand - someone on their back, someone thrown down, someone snatches in retaliation, then reluctant grunts and that Oh Yeah! smile when you both slow it down and stop trying to touch each other yet also win.  You have to pick one.

This time, the first round goes to him.  It’s: he lunges, you evade, he grabs, you hit, (he remembers there’s hitting involved,) you reach and - _crack!_ \- he smacks.

“Rrrrr- _fuck!_ ” Right on the previous pain, reigniting it all.  You can feel the muscle dealing with the impact.  “Goddamn long arms.”

He shrugs, circling again.   _So figure it out_.

Next he attacks, goes around like a wrestling move, so you go around further, pulling his weight and knotting your legs around him to get him straight, face down, flat enough, whichever, with the nearest wrist twisted by your leg and _smack! Smack! Smack_! “Ah fuck! FUCK!” _Left! Right! Left!_ \- evening up the score. He bursts out of the hold and gets you pinned, messy and furious.

_What’s it like huh?_  You don’t even need to say it, and he gets it, in a breath, that you’ve been tolerating a kind of violence he rarely sees.  

“You wanna keep going?” He says it through his jaw.

“Yes.”  You’re so ready to bring it now, smack his cute little behind to kingdom come and see what he thinks about that.

Dean’s begun to think he might regret this. “You gonna stick to the rules?”

“They’re going to care about your rules?”

He gets up, backing away, and readies himself for your to attack.  Waits for your attack.  You don’t generally attack unless you’re upset, you realise, and you’re not upset anymore.  You need him to win again so you can test your dander, like this whole circus is supposed to.

“Come on.”  You jut your jaw.  “I’m playing me.”

Dean does a half shake of the head and goes for it.  It’s not that efficient, but he’s got enough strength that it’s still challenging and he’s back on his game in about 2 seconds, bundling you up so that he can reach your ass and smack it, giving your other cheek a fair go.

It is infuriating, even in a controlled situation, and you thrash against it with blindness, but only for a few seconds.  Then you’ve found your centre and the leverage, and you’ve hit him, punched him in the tendon that has to let you go.  He grunts loud and surprised and you start to feel sorry, swinging yourself around to get on top and spider over him, hold him down for just a few seconds, just long enough that he thinks you might head-butt him.  And you would, were he the enemy, your whole head, neck and shoulders, thrown into the bridge of his nose in a full blow that would send his blood fanning across your own face.

Instead, you pin him with your mouth to his, and kiss him fiercely.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, gruff and puffing, “this is not how I want you to beat them.”

You let Dean move, sort of roll over him as he shifts himself back to centre, your knees finding the mat beside his waist, and he wraps his arms around you.

“How do you feel when I get upset like that?” You kiss his cheek and ease yourself a little, soften your hold to just gravity.  “When I’m near tears because someone’s gotten me upset like a little girl?”

“I hate it.”  His eyes have that heavy-lidded loathing for the memory of your grimacing and writhing under someone else’s hands.  “Makes me want to break something.”

“Me too.”

He knows what you feel in those moments, and now feels hypocritical for asking you to feel any differently, as though you were silly, or wrong, or unreasonable.

“I’m sure that my feelings, and your feelings, are appropriate. _Disproportionate,_ maybe, but,” you shrug your shoulders one at a time.  “Knowing I’ve got you on my side like this, that helps.”

You kiss him some more, then reach behind you to lead his roaming hands back to your waist and away from your throbbing buttocks.

“And like you said, smacking my ass doesn’t make it theirs,” you smile.  “It’ll always be yours.”

“Naw,” he chuckles, “it’s not-”

“It is Dean,” you nod and lean down to put your lips on his again.  “Always has been.  I love you too.”

He kisses you back then, pulling and holding, hugging and breathing you in, like he can breathe you into his edges.  “Yeah?”

“Always.” And you let your lips rest on his and feel him everywhere.  “Come on, I’ll put some cream on that tush of yours.”

“Holy shit, there’s no way I hit you that hard.”  His head thuds to the mat.  “It still hurts!”

“You’re fucking dreaming, Baby.  You smack like a cowboy.”

Standing tall, you pull him up, smirking at his “Can I make a joke about you being my cowgirl?”

“Still dreaming sweetheart.  Ass privileges are closed for now.” You turn away, leaving him to follow you out of the gym.

“Wait, are you serious?” He’s arms are wide as he catches up.  “No! Good intentions! Baby! Baby, come on!”

That evening, when the heat of your ass has subsided some and the glow of those his words is still making you shine, Dean lays in his bed with the covers pulled down, waving you in for the little spoon spot.

You turn around and hook your thumb into your pants, pulling down the waistband to show the feint purple patch on your cheek, and the redness on the other.

“What?! No!! No-no-no Baby! Nohohoo! Why didn’t you ice it?!”

“Because you, my love, need practise being okay with me being hurt.”

“How are you even sitting down?” He crawls over and starts kissing the cheeks.

“Oh, it hurts,” you assure him, “every time.”

Dean’s forehead thuds against your lower back, right on the bone.  “Am I supposed to be okay with it when it’s my fault?”  His hands squeeze your hips.

Inside his hold you turn around and let him look up at you from your waist, imploring eyes at full-puppy, mortified at himself.  “It’s the last time it’ll be your fault, I know.”

“Lemme make it up to you?” Dean rubs his chin over your pubic bone, where your waistband sits low, and pecks the skin.  “I’ll take your mind offa that.  I’ll make you feel real good.  C’mon.”

“No.” You move aside to get down to panties and singlet for bed.

“What?” He’s confused, almost upset, as he watches you waiting to lay down, expecting him to move out of the way.  “You’re not even going to let me do something nice? Somethin’ that feels nice?”  He shuffles his knees back, so you lay in your place.

“Nope,” you insist.  “Not yet.  I’m going to lay here and suffer because you hit me.  Hope the means justified the ends, Baby.”

He’s almost pouting.  “Why are you being so mean?”

You wave him in to lay beside you, face to face.  “I know you mean to improve me, but tough love like this is patronising.  You don’t have to hurt me to prove the point.  I’ve been a hunter longer than I’ve known you.  I know what the fuck pain feels like.” It’s plenty reassuring to see him listen without protest.  “You wanted to show me how they wouldn’t follow the rules or hold back, well, now I’m out of action for a few hours, just like in real life.”

“In real life I’d spend however long helping you forget that pain.” Dean starts to nudge his nose against yours, fishing for a kiss.

“Mmm, kind of contradictory.”

He pulls back a little, lost in thought about the means he chose, and the ends you got.  Every few seconds his gaze comes back to you, but then it slips again while he remembers the day.

“If-  I think I forgot- ” He finds it then, “We take on so much hurt with work, I forgot that we should keep ourselves from it in between, not be indifferent to it.  I hurt you.”

“Yeah.”

“And I didn’t need to.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know Baby, come here.”  You pull him in and wrap yourself around him.  “I love you, I know you love me. And I trust you.”

Dean yanks his head from your neck, clearly ready to protest his worthiness of that trust.

“Always Dean, even through your mistakes.”  You drag your hand down the side of his face, thumbing his disgusted brow and curled lip.  “Okay, now.”

“Now what?”

“Make it up to me.”

He starts to lighten, and when you smile at him to show he’s forgiven, he smiles properly, nuzzles into you slow and heavy.  “What would you like? Name it.  Anything.”  He starts to kiss you, and you find enough air to answer “I’d like you to find the magic position that puts no pressure on, and does not bend, my left ass cheek, and I want your lips.”  You breathe the words into his mouth. “And your tongue.”

“They’re yours, Gorgeous.  The whole kit, all yours.”


End file.
